


Mars and Adonis

by Arachnid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arachnid/pseuds/Arachnid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With hot touch he yields to his lover's breast,<br/>Star smog encumbers down to his tip toes,<br/>His back arch'd by cold bow of night to crest,<br/>Thus enticed he lingers in Cancer's throes.<br/>As connexion takes form lips of sick lore,<br/>The slaughter suppress'd by skin stirs no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Karkat: Exposition

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for the davekat fanfiction contest.  
> Here's the quote:  
> “I live near the  
> slaughterhouse  
> and am ill  
> with thriving.”
> 
> \- Charles Bukowski
> 
> I wrote the sonnet in the summary because I can't write anything straightforward ahh gomen  
> This first chapter is Karkat.

Sometimes you rubbed your hands raw with antibacterial. The camphor smell clung to your skin and eventually became a part of you. It was a habit. You’ve tried to stop carrying it around with you, flipping the top off, slathering the sanitizer more than necessary. However there were far too many times where your fingers were aching and your skin felt infected, as if there were millions of creatures crawling all over you and there was only one way to cure it with 99.9% certainty. Others have pointed out this nagging urge you had. Poked at you for it. You shrugged them off, though, because what else was there to do? You were susceptible and you knew it.

You were scared deep down of becoming ill. The broken skin around your fingernails, the way your eyes were always sore, and the flashes of tingling flesh you sometimes experienced only worsened your dread. No one was experiencing these things, you concluded assuredly. No one. It was you alone at night enveloped in the soothing hands of sleep. You’d twist and turn in the sands of slumber that were to guide you peacefully to an unconscious bliss, unperturbed by visions of disease and stained skin. There was no use to it. It was to be another night without sleep, staring into your ceiling and to watch as the darkness swirled and dipped and played games until dawn. 

You didn’t need peace, anyway...  
You’ve gone this long.

***  
It was a mid-afternoon in May.

The six-year-old often traipsed up and down the grassy hills on days like these to play in the old, rusted park. He’d tumble down the dew and breathe in the smell of bloody chlorophyll. By the end of the day as dusk draped its tendrils over Earth he’d be blotted in grass stains. He didn’t care, even if his mother did.

He slowly crept up on the earth and felt the dirt exhale beneath him. His feet were bare. That way, he felt close to the frogs, to the worms and to all the helpless, friendly little creatures. When his goal was in view he grinned. A rusty worn swing set, covered in cinnamon dust and flecks of ginger powder. It would creak like a family of crickets at night.

It was usually empty. When it was occupied, he’d stomp his feet and pout. He was a possessive child and he certainly was possessive of his rust bleeding swings which sung to him while he reciprocated. He gingerly placed himself on the metal seat and kicked his little brown feet. 

Creak, creak, creak.

He closed his eyes, back when they were light as feathers, when his eyelashes were like nightfall upon his cheeks. When his body wasn’t heavy with fatigue and anxiety. He was light and the music of the trees and cinnamon and frogs swelled within him. He parted his lips tentatively and drunk in the wind. It stirred slowly. Then his vocal chords vibrated as well. His voice dipped in and out of the breeze and he rose and fell with each full swing. He pushed himself forward and back, and eventually he fell into a rhythm. His song and swing well in sync, he felt the sun smiling down on him and he returned with a youthful grin of his own. His muscles relaxed as he felt the beat of the swing, the creaks in time with his own voice.

Under the willow and over the hills,  
Lies a tinderbox.  
The leaves gathering for all newly stilled,  
While near stands a fox.

I’ve dreamed of you once and the teeth you hold,  
I told him shyly  
He grinned and bore while lips over did fold,  
Paws closer to me.

That day, that day, I’ll remember your sway  
Blood which stained your lips.  
That way, that way, though you hid in the slay,  
I’ll take away this.

His childish voice resounded and permeated the dusty air. It traveled and soaked the stones, the grass, and the thick trees. Then it slowed to a trickle, to a deep gulp of air, a gentle exhale of breath, and a soft smile. He kicked his feet harder and angled his back. He went faster and faster and faster. He wanted to fly. The nearby rusted playthings cheered him on. His heart was swollen and he kept this feeling buried in his chest, like a secret he’d guard for the rest of his life. Everything belonged to him at this very moment.

He rose.  
He soared.

And he slipped.

The next few seconds were to be the slowest of his entire life.

***

When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t really explain to you why his flesh was searing near his skull or why the earth was desecrated with his blood. He couldn’t explain to you why the taste of metal and salt was choking him. He couldn’t explain to you why he was coughing and screaming in the aftershocks of his consternation and the pure terror caused by the heat and pulse of the left side of his head, right above his forehead. Red pumped forth and enveloped him. His fingers dug into the soil and he was trying to wake up. 

He pleaded with creationism. 

He pleaded with the stars and the sun and the sky and all the planets in the limited space he knew.

He was terrified because before he thought that for a fleeting second, he was everything he needed.

His whole body was shaking. His tears mixed with the earth and blood. He lifted his hands, which were trembling of their own accord at this point, seized in paroxysmal fear. They were stained deeply with dirt. The image was burned into his impressionable eyes. He tried to exhale but the puff of air was ragged when it left him, not the way he remembered it only seconds ago. A caustic stone was rising in his throat and he retched. It tasted of burning sour apple juice.

He collapsed, riding the waves of pounding agony into unconsciousness.

 

The rest of it was a blur. He remembered jerking awake not too long thereafter. Weakly stumbling his way back into his house. His mother holding him and crying, seized in panic. He remembered not being able to speak; his tongue was swollen. 

She left him, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t feel anything. But he was caked with blood and dirt. So he stepped into the shower.  
He clumsily fumbled with the handle until the water finally pushed itself forth from the shower head. It was boiling hot. He remembered the water running a vibrant carmine. He remembered staring at the drain and watching as it swallowed him up. His head was still pulsing. He wasn’t numb for long. He felt the heat and he was crying again.

Then he remembered his mother finding him. Her scary reaction. The ambulance. 

He left the rest of it up to them. He remembered nothing more.


	2. Dave: Exposition

Since childhood, you had heard voices in your head. They were subtle and soft, and sometimes you could only drink them in if you listened intently. They quietly sung to you. They tapped out rhythms in your head. They pulsed against your eardrum and played haunting reverberations. They lilted stories of the past, present and future. You could hear them. If you wanted to. They had become a part of your body and you accepted them as such. Their echoes raced in your blood and rebounded back into your heart. 

You could ignore them. 

If you wanted to. 

Each time your fingers tapped out a time, (1, and 2, and 1, and 2) you could feel the seconds slipping as well (1, and 2, and 1, and 2) and you always held your cool and composure. You always had a sense of your environment, constantly assessed your surroundings. You were never anything but present.

But as the voices grew louder, you noticed. And it was not by choice. You began tripping out of focus more often than usual. You couldn’t ignore them if you wanted to. Neither could you listen to them, really. They became confused and muddled and you felt like they multiplied. You began questioning yourself, and you were Dave Strider. You never did that. But you couldn’t help it, because you were doubting your own verity as an individual, an existing human being. The voices were buzzing in your ear, no longer at a steady beat, but in a frenetic and desperate sense. You wanted nothing but quiet but you couldn’t help force back the needling hums and songs of death in your bones. You wanted your steady pulse and your cool tones, but all that was left was doubt. All that was left was screaming and the aching entities that lived in your bloodstream.

You would try to find a way to force it back down...  
One step at a time.

***  
The boy’s first real fight with his older brother occurred on a warm winter night in Dallas. 

He used to fear the dark. He hated the late hours during which the ceiling dripped with vitriolic tar and was filled with luminescent polka dots. The night sky was choking him like always, whispering black promises to him. It was time to go. Time to confront the man who made mistakes all the time but would never admit to them. He was ready, he was ready, he was steady.

His brother was waiting on the roof with sharp words and a sharp blade. The boy wondered why this had to begin tonight. He wouldn’t be able to see his brother clearly through the dark must. He had pleaded with him to forestall the battle, but the man wouldn’t listen. The boy took a deep breath. It was 8:26 PM, sharp. He was shaking and his head rattled, empty and light. The first step he took was tentative. He had a narrow staircase to traverse and a plethora of steps before he would reach his goal. He could take his time with this.

After the initial movement however, he was hesitant no more. One, two, three, four. He was locked in a rhythm now and each step he took was a haunting beat. The motions reverberated off the walls and entered his mind. He could do this. He could keep the pulse going, and going, and going...

And he did not pause. His ears erupted with placating voices which were guiding him towards the end. He could trust them. He knew that, as foreign as they were. So he swallowed them up and kept them in his chest, the animals in his head.

There was a door. Metal, thick, and heavy. 

Time for the bridge.

The voices prickled in his hands as he gripped the handle of the door and applied pressure...

His resolve weakened, perhaps upon seeing his brother standing before him, much grander than the little boy, a monster in the dark. Or perhaps it was the eerie light the stars cast. Or perhaps it was the atmosphere. The air that night felt like the breath of nocturnal ghosts whose umbrage took root in time and space. There was a sharp breeze, then the wind settled, and the sky was heavy. The boy gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, until his knuckles waxed white as bleached bone. 

Time for the refrain.

They started at each other, the boy nimble and sprightly, the man powerful and swift. The paltry steel of the blades hissed and cried as the two sparred. Dead planets and concrete were their audience. It was a show tonight. The man deflected attacks with ease and the boy struggled. The younger was hit with the brunt of his brother’s hilt, and he staggered. He had no method. Only errant slashes and frantic parries. There was a hindrance in his brother’s barrage which gave the boy time to force the pain in his chest down.

He could feel the bruise blooming into a flower of primary colors. His head was full of buzzing bees. Then his breath hitched as he realized the voices he’d heard on the staircase were returning. They held his head and cradled it with their tune. So he listened.

And he rose as the second refrain began. 

The violent dance flowed once more, though this time, the boy felt his brother’s position as well as his. The disembodied voices forewarned him of the man’s next move, repetitive as they became. They aided his observation. They guided him as he learned his enemy’s past and future tactics. The boy developed a rhythm, one that could match his brother’s—one that was all his own. He swung back and forth at a pace that he could keep time to. The voices played out the melody as they swam inside of his skull. The heat of the moment encased him, burned him, urged him on in ardor. 

In the end, his brother loomed over him like a galaxy and fell him. 

The boy remembered the cold concrete against his soft face and the voices trapping him like icy needles. The man carried him down to the apartment, down to his bedroom, and treated his wounds. Soft and subtle assurances pushed forth from the man’s lips, rare words to repair his younger brother’s beaten confidence. You did great, kid. Not bad at all. ...I’m sorry.

It had felt nice at first. But then he was alone a few hours later, ensconced in deep nighttime. He was left with nothing but his bones and empty darkness. He started to panic because he was inexplicably cold and the voices had risen to a vehement crescendo. In his head were screaming pigs, last sighs and scraping metal. So his throat filled with bile and his skin turned to ice. He was lost in his own mind. He never felt so sick before in his life, and he abhorred it.

The voices were more potent than he could ever imagine. They were bloody and acidulous. Fever was overtaking him with a blanket of lead. He vomited. Boiling tears melted his flesh. His throat was like sandpaper. His fervid mind, like a shaken hive, was stinging and taking a hold of him. Water, he rasped. Cold water.  
Years later he would still dread the fire of a burning throat and cold skin.


	3. Karkat: Have A Regular Day

This is what they told you.

You were playing in the park, all alone. Of course this would happen to you. Of course you would land on the hard, cold seesaw. You were only six. You were a stupid kid. You didn’t tell your mother that you slipped out of the house. You didn’t tell her you were going to a run down, metallic deathtrap of an excuse for a playground. You deliberately rebelled and didn’t follow the rules, didn’t even bother to go to the public park where good kids go. You went to the abandoned park where people pissed on the slides and spat on the ground.

On that day, your head and sharp rust connected. Your head would never be the same again, and neither would you. 

\---

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are eighteen years old. 

You’re currently rubbing your arms, trying to smooth out the gooseflesh. You left the window open last night, and there is a sharp breeze floating in this morning – whatever was left of the morning anyway. You fell asleep at about two in the morning, and woke up only recently around noon. Ordinary routine called for heading straight to the desktop to check any possible messages from the only friends you possess, or to scroll absentmindedly through IMDB – something to waste time. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, you sigh and lean back. What a boring fucking day.

You rise and shuffle over to your wardrobe. You pull open the top drawer, then smash it closed with exasperation. Again, no underwear. Great. You groan as you kneel down, sorting through the clothes that you threw on the ground as soon as you came home last night. You can’t stand the idea of re-using underpants. Dirty, old, worn...fuck. Of course on this day, something like that would happen. 

Finding your goal, you grip the pair and drag yourself to the bathroom next door. Your mother isn’t home, thank God. You could avoid her disappointed eyes. When she looks at you that way, your skull feels a sharp stab. During her work days, you manage to avoid your mother’s presence. Today she left for work at 7 AM, an ungodly hour.

You heave a deep, dream-soured sigh as you turn the knob in the shower stall. You smile, perhaps a little masochistically, as you crank it to the hottest temperature you can handle. You throw open the curtain and hesitate momentarily before you step in. You hiss as you feel your flesh redden and sting. You bite your lip hard enough to tear. Your eyes are tightly shut as you taste metal. The memories flood your body. You can smell the blood, feel the pain, hear your mother’s gasps, taste your pulse. You can see the dirt.

When you open your eyes, it’s you staring at the drain. Remembering this day twelve years ago. You’re watching as the drain is eating you up and it’s grinning right at you. Your skull is cracking, full force. You see the blood pulsing and drowning your eyes. You watch the brown, brown earth staining and destroying your skin. The heat is all that you feel and you swallow it all. Your flesh is crawling, your heart is racing and you’re going to melt. Your head is going to fucking split open.

So you turn off the showerhead and gulp for fresh air. You fall to your knees and with tremulous fingers, you’re scraping at your skin. You’re cursing like your life depends on it. You lie still for a while, and finally, slowly, push yourself off of the porcelain. There’s no blood and there’s no grime. But your skin is still breathing fire and your head is in a worse condition than it was before. You forget to feel anything else, so you perfunctorily pull a different sweatshirt over your head, then jeans, and forget the fucking underpants. You return to your room and lie on your bed, limbs spread wide apart, and just stare at the ceiling and mutter a few prayers under your breath.

You don’t talk to anyone about what happened to you. You don’t elaborate on why you have consistent migraines. You’ll never speak of how you came to be diagnosed with post-traumatic headaches. What transpired that day was a curse and you hate yourself for it. Not only because of the reoccurring pain in your skull that makes you feel as if you’re drowning, but because of the way you hate your own skin. Usually when you look at your hands, you can’t help but see the dirt that was burned into your mind so long ago. You can’t help but see your blood and bones plagued with tiny little creatures living off your rotting body. 

You constantly wash yourself, and that had been your first agonizing shower of the several you’d be taking today. You rub your temples, trying to plead with your head. It wouldn’t work. So you close your eyes and inhale slowly. As a change of pace and something to occupy your mind with, you contemplate the miracle of your ability to fall asleep last night. Usually you spend hours running around the dark confines of your mind, entangled in the claws of the monsters that lie under your bed. It is mostly due to your anxiety and, you suspect with a groan, head trauma that you invariably spend nights tossing and turning, wishing for your demise. You would give up and down Benadryl, and lately it was becoming a habit. But last night, you achieved soporific splendor without the assistance of drugs, something that you’ve come to hate. The idea of dependence sickens you, and you feel your body has enough toxins to spoil your flesh and system as it is.

Just thinking about this is making you sick.

You hear a message tone from your laptop. You jerk forward. Finally. It’s probably Gamzee.

 

\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

TC: hEy BeSt FrIeNd.  
TC: WhAt ArE yOu AlL uP tO dOiNg?  
CG: WHY’S IT ANY OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS?  
CG: WHAT DO YOU WANT ANYWAY?  
TC: BrOtHeR, aRe YoU aLl CaUgHt Up In YoUr NoGgIn SiTuAtIoN?  
CG: UGH. CAN YOU BE ANY LESS DIRECT?  
CG: GO AWAY. I COULD BE SPENDING MY TIME MORE WISELY RIGHT NOW AND WITH LESS PAIN AND REGRET INVOLVED.  
CG: STRANGLING MYSELF IS INCLUDED IN THAT HYPOTHETICAL LIST OF ACTIVITIES.  
CG: IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING.  
TC: nAaAwW bRo. I aM aLl HeRe To JaM wItH yOu Up To YoUr HeArT's CoNtEnT. tHaT iS wHaT bEsT fRiEnDs Do.  
TC: I aIn'T gOiNg MoThErFuCkInG nOwHeRe UnTiL yOu'Re AlL rEaDy To TaLk To Me. :o)  
CG: WELL IF IT WASN’T DOING IT BEFORE, MY SKULL IS REALLY CAVING IT ON ITSELF NOW.  
CG: **SIGH**  
CG: I’VE BEEN LYING ON MY BED, QUESTIONING MY EXISTENCE MOSTLY. SICK TO MY STOMACH AND WONDERING IF I SHOULD EVEN LEAVE MY ROOM.  
CG: I MEAN IT’S NOT LIKE I’M DOING OR WILL BE DOING ANYTHING DISCRIMINABLE FROM THE FUCKING NORM ON THIS, THE SACRED COMPETITOR FOR THE APPELLATION OF SHITTIEST DAY OF THE YEAR.  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, ANYWAY?  
CG: YOU DID GO TO YOUR CLASS, RIGHT?  
TC: Of CoUrSe I mOtHeRfUcKiN dId. YoU tOlD mE wHaT wAs BeInG tHe RiGhT tHiNg To Do AnD sO i Up AnD dId It. I tRuSt YoU kArBrO.  
TC: nOw YoU nEeD tO gEt SoMe MoRe SlEeP aNd KiCk BaCk A lItTlE, aLlRiGhT? dO nOt GeT yOuRsElF sO uP aNd GoInG lIkE a FiZzY fOuNtAiN oF sApOrOuS sPlEnDoR.  
TC: cAn YoU dO tHaT fOr Me?  
CG: WHATEVER.  
TC: :o) I tHiNk I'm RuNnInG oUt Of My ShIt. nEeD tO gO.  
TC: i PrOmIsEd A bRoThEr I'd MeEt HiM bY tHe PaRk AnYwAy. CaN't Go BaCk On A mOtHeRfUcKeR cAn I?  
CG: WAIT, YOU’RE NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT AGAIN, ARE YOU?  
CG: YOU IDIOT. YOU’RE GOING TO FUCKING RUIN YOUR HEAD WITH THAT SHIT.  
TC: nAh BrOtHeR. dOn'T wOrRy AbOuT iT.  
TC: i GoTtA bE dOiNg WhAt I mOtHeRfUcKiNg FeEl AlL rIgHt In To Be DoInG. iTs No BiG dEaL.  
CG: I JUST STOPPED GIVING A FUCK ABOUT FIVE LETTERS INTO YOUR CACOPHONY OF CHEWED UP AND SPIT OUT EXCUSES FOR WORDS.  
CG: DO WHATEVER YOU WANT. GO INHALE CARBON MONOXIDE WHILE YOU’RE AT IT.  
CG: HAVE A CONTEST WITH YOURSELF, SEE HOW LONG IT TAKES TO PRODUCE A DEAD CLOWN.  
TC: hAhAhA iT's GoNnA bE a GrEaT mOtHeRfUcKiNg DaY fOr YoU, yOu'Ll SeE.  
TC: i'Ll LaY sOmE wOrDs AgAiNsT yOuR hEaR dUcTs LaTeR bEsT fRiEnD. gOtTa Go NoW.

\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

 

You groan and your hands fall from the keyboard. Your eyes narrow at the stagnant text on the screen. Though he confounds you at times, you’re always concerned about your closest companion, Gamzee. You pester him to wake up and get to his classes, you call him when he doesn’t contact you for an uncomfortably extended period of time, and you know nobody that can placate you quite like he can. It’s no mere feat for anyone besides the clownish man and his placid disposition.

Though you assured him you wouldn’t be leaving the confines of your room, you exit to the kitchen anyway. His hortative words run through your mind over and over. You scoff at him – yet you can’t help but wonder if he’s right. Maybe today won’t be as awful as you think.

Your bare feet smack against the tile as you walk up to the refrigerator and spy the sticky note your mother left upon the door. You’ve come to expect these notes by now and you mindfully check them. As always, it’s a list of chores you’re expected to complete while she’s at work. It’s the least you can do, after all. You’re flat broke, earning minimum wage, living at your mother’s house, moribund while the world passes you by and your friends attend college – and it’s all your fault.

You quickly scan her Spanish. It’s simply the usual, but she added watering the plants. She usually tends to that; she must’ve missed the task that morning. Gardening is her specialty, but you don’t mind going outside and enjoying the snapdragons, the tulips, the little snails that glide amongst rocks, and the obstinate, growing, green grass.

Your nose wrinkles at the thought of crunching grass beneath your toes, so you start fidgeting and your left foot is rubbing on your right ankle. It’s time to clean the bedrooms before memories can resurface, you believe.

The next few hours are spent fussing about the place, mostly. You can’t perform deep cleansing such as making use of the bleach and ammonia cleaning products. Your mother has compromised with you a long way back that she’ll do that part in the upkeep of the house. You simply were never able to stand the fumes. They went straight to your head.

After bringing back the laundry and cleaning the dishes, you’re ready to tend to the garden. You saved that for last. It’s mid-May; the sun is still high and you have time left before nighttime breathes upon you again. You take your sandals with you, exit through the back screen door, and feel the stone beneath you as you stride towards the greenery. The yard is humble and compact, but you still admire it. It’s surrounded by a metal fence and there is a withering cherry tree that stands erect in a corner of the yard. From one of its strong, old branches hangs a detestable tire wheel, a pitiable excuse for a swing, tethered by a rope of frayed jute. You stay far away from it ever since the incident, far from its sickening rhythm. The flowers are limited and the designated area of soil is small. It’s mostly grass, you observe, with a plastic table for summer night suppers, but it’s a yard.

Your green watering can is filled, so you ignore the sun singing onto your skin and make your way to the flowers. They aren’t manifold by any means, but they were beautiful. You never took a particular interest in botany, but flowers were always interesting to you. You would pull them apart as a child, stroking the filaments with your nubby fingers, rubbing the pollen on your hands, kissing the errant petals. The memory is fresh on your pounding head while you gently press your lips to a red tulip. The scent fills your nose and you quickly pull away. That wasn’t juvenile. Not at all, Karkat.

Your ears are burning while you dip the can towards the ground, relieving the plants. Your fingers start to itch in anticipation at the thought of immersing yourself in hot water and soap. The peach pansies and peppermint petunias dance in the rain. After helping the flowers to a hearty drink, you drop the can on the ground and observe the sky with a sigh. It isn’t such a pulsating, humid day. It’s not so bad. Your mind begins to roam as your heart swells with thoughts of leaves and arthropods. You completely forget how much of a shitty day you were having.


	4. Dave: Have A Regular Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> while you're reading the rap listen to this If you'd like http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2YXulaLwaVU  
> oh god

“Did you cut class today?”

You look up from the video game magazine you are browsing on the kitchen table. Bro is staring at you. His face is a sheet of ice, want of emotion. By now, you are able to parse the tones in his voice and find the true meaning behind his guarded words. The concern is woven in his tongue.

“I don’t know, didn’t bother to check if I had class today in the first place.”

He nods, and goes on with his life. He can understand your intentions as well. He knows you were feigning nonchalance – your true nature would never allow you to waste your time and effort into missing the opportunity of absorbing every single lesson to be offered. But you two play this game anyway. It’s natural.  
You would not have it any other way.  
You return to idly skimming the poorly written articles on this slow May morning.

\--

Your name is Dave Strider and you’re nineteen years old. 

You’re wondering where this day is going, and whether the sun will ever sink back into its earthen bed. You’re tapping the keyboard with your long, pale fingers, face stoic, layered with boredom. On days like these, you admit to missing your twin sister. She’s chasing her psycho-bullshit dream, though, and you’re proud of her. She’s probably doing a hell of a lot better than you. She always did so much better than you. 

At thirteen years old, she was a precocious psychoanalyst, something you both admired and dreaded about her. For one, no one was ever able to sift through your inherited facade quite like her. She often pinpointed your true intentions better than Bro could in your daily song and dance. She could uncover buried bits and pieces that not even you were aware of about yourself. She was your best friend, your sparring partner in words, and your favorite sister. Though you only have one.

She hasn’t contacted you in a while – she’s preoccupied with blooming adulthood, independence, and her rigorous studies in psychology. And, you note to yourself, what is most likely wizard fan fiction.

You’re currently checking your account on bandcamp and eyeing your pesterchum, waiting for your cue. Usually, your fellow music enthusiast and overall inane juggalo acquaintance contacts you on Friday afternoons. The interactions consist of a few words – nothing complicated. The whole purpose is to arrange a jam session between the two of you. Long, in-depth conversations have never been your and Gamzee’s thing. You can’t actually stand the guy. Your relationship with him is deeply rooted in the miracle that is musical appreciation. Of course, you also can’t resist the ironic charm of hanging out with a believer in the Dark Carnival.

You’re wondering if you should lower the price for your next EP. Sales aren’t as high as you’d like. You’ve become somewhat of a beloved internet icon through one of your various blogs that you keep, and honestly, the virtual strangers that love your amateur beats are the only buoys keeping you afloat in this economically centered disease called life. As your ambitions in the field of music and recording strengthen, you find your trusty Akai-MPC 1000 to be child’s business, and your equipment could be considered nigh obsolete. However, as long as the album remains in its current stump, you can’t rake in the cash to contribute to your technological advancement. As the days pass and you near your goal of audio engineer, you can’t help but feel your hands tingle for perhaps a new sampler, new headphones – the list goes on, but generally anything that will further your career. 

You close the browser and lean back in your swivel chair. Your brother was always okay with buying you electronics when you were a kid. Phones, turntables, a computer, a camera – he was always cool with that. He was always fine with your inexperienced hands fiddling with buttons and volume slides. He respected that about you. But now, you are an adult, and empathy and shame were well in you. You’re addled with guilt at the thought of going to school at Bro’s expense as it is. You couldn’t possibly ask for much more. Those days are dead and you need to fucking move on. You need to, like Rose did. 

You’re slowly running your hand through your slicked flaxen hair. As much as you don’t like to admit it, you’re not independent and you’re not all grown up. The voices that manifested when you were a child have guided you through life. They’ve kept you steady. They’ve helped your pulse rise and fall at the same speed and time that they always have. When you focus on your tunes, the rhythm flows along with the precision of the disembodied voices in your head. Your music wouldn’t be the same without them. You’re afraid of them, yet ever so trusting and dependent. The voices have become you.

The cool demeanor indicative of your essence as a Strider is built upon by these voices, these monsters in the dark. They’re what keeps your breath from hitching. They’re what keeps your anger from boiling and bubbling over, frothing in your heart and in your head. Your intensity is apparent and intrinsic to you, but you fervently believe the voices keep you as cool as your breath, like a sweet taste of peppermint bark. You’re as tightly bound as a drum and you pride yourself in it. You’re as proud as you suffer.

Even now, through the empty buzz of the lazy day, you hear their soft whispers against the walls of your skull. They’re welcome and they’re boring. They’re nothing new in the least to you. You blow your cool, cool breath, and are suddenly hoping Gamzee has a fresh supply of cigarettes. No tobacco is as good as Texas tobacco, and frankly you’re tired of the cheap shit you buy. The voices create a blizzard in your mind and you’re severely in need of nicotine. You used to think smoking was for douchebags. It is, but why quit when acridity can burn away the taste of fear and insecurity in your throat? In any case, you look kind of cool while doing it, and that never hurt anybody.

You’re clicking your tongue and staring at the ceiling when you hear a beep. You slowly lean forward. 

\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

TC: hEy, MoThErFuCkEr. YoU kNoW wHeRe To FiNd Me.  
TG: yep

\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

You rise and grab your sunglasses. Time to head to the park.

\---

The park is only a few blocks away from your shitty apartment, yet you were an asshole enough to take your worn motorcycle, a hand-me-down from your Bro’s hog days. It was a birthday present, a Suzuki Boulevard S40 that your Bro insisted on calling a Savage. It isn’t in an unbearably bad shape; the seat is comfortable, and the infuriatingly bright candy red of the paint somehow spells home on wheels. Though you’re secretly beyond grateful for the bike, it could be better. It was a little too low to the ground for your taste. 

You’re walking along the pavement, having dismounted and confined your motorcycle properly, donning your leather jacket. It was of the utmost necessity to wear it whenever you ventured with your sick hog. You wouldn’t be able to look like the complete tool package without it. You find it juxtaposes nicely with your shades. 

You spot Makara easily. He’s hard to miss. His face is painted stark white and charcoal, simple minstrel decorum. His hair is a tangled curly berry bush.. His large hands are stuffed in his pockets, his jaw is clean cut, eyes unregistering, sinew languid. He’s long limbs and stiff yawns. He’s all sugarplums and grape gumdrops. He’s ferocity, familiarity, and friendliness all rolled into one. 

Gamzee Makara sits on the usual bench. He’s just sitting there, patient, as if waiting for a miracle. You brought a CD with you on which you burned some of your more recent beats. Who burns CDs anymore? You assholes do, and you then proceed to freestyle while listening to them. You never recall jamming anywhere besides this location. It’s your headquarters of harmonious cacophonies dripping with irony and melodious wicked paint. The park is nothing but a dog park, grassy with paved pathways for walking. There are trees for shade and farther down there’s a small, chrome-laden playground, shiny and friendly.

You seat yourself besides the clown. Bitterly you note he’s got a few inches on you. He caught your eye while you were walking up to him and he didn’t break eye contact, although you did. He probably didn’t notice through the dark shield. His grin is lethargic and his eyes droopy, though purposely distant when they lie on you. It’s a distance that’s tacit and comfortable. You don’t care much for Gamzee, he doesn’t care much for you. 

“Hey, wicked brother. You brought what you were all up and going your mouthflap about?”

“Yeah, man. I’m guessing you didn’t bother to peep the new shit.”

He shrugged, carefree. Smile still on his painted lips.

You free the burned disc from a pocket of your cliché biker jacket and lay it on his thick pasty fingers. He holds it as carefully as he can, twirling it in his hand. Then he digs the pockmarked CD player from between his thighs and inserts the disc. “I’m motherfuckin’ counting on you, bro.”

You roll your eyes. Not worth a quip.

His heavy eyelids and sickly sweet smell evince the nature of his actions prior to your arrival. You inwardly sigh. You don’t partake in the recreational drug – you’d feel like the object of your derision. His head is nodding to the first track and your eyes smile. You know each track by heart, and you both know you don’t need to hear. Besides, the voices in you bring the memory, freshly dragging their nails across your noggin. You’re bleeding the melody. 

“Are you feeling it yet?” you cut.

“Fuck, yeah. Let a brother get his strict on.”

“Won’t be pleased ‘til you’re austere as fuck.”

His eyes are closed at this point, and track one has passed. No big deal. That was mostly transitional anyway. On the second, you experimented a bit with something more evocative of A Tribe Called Quest. A straight week of binging on old hip hop mix tapes from the nearest used music store most likely influenced you. Luckily, Gamzee’s taste in hip hop takes on the semblance of yours. As far as you know.

In any case, you can tell he likes it. He’s about to lay some beats, and you’re ready for it.

“Okay – My spit's an oil pipe which brings forth the fuckin’ heat,  
to all the nonbelievers and cretins in the street,  
to all those who surfeit from miracles alike,  
to motherfuckers preyin' on the lyricals they spike,  
the nerve, and the verve, to ache the think pan,  
and bow you to your knees til you’re no longer a man,  
a cruel fate of fire for heretics that aspire,  
with a plate of royalty from a horror empire.”

You break in: 

“Your horrorterrors are dead, you look fucking bibulous,  
The shit that you’re spitting ain’t nothing but ridiculous,  
Sing a different tune, loon, your stay here is doomed,  
Don't come back next spring since you’re nothing but maroon,  
You’re just another ship and you just got sunk  
By Strider, passing tests and you straight out flunk  
You’re lagging and you’re sagging and you’re rhymes are raggin’,  
But that’s just an opinion,  
If I’m the king, then you’re the minion.”

“Fuck you, brother,” he says, and you both laugh. You prefer to listen to him than try to understand. You admit, his rhymes are pretty pleasant, but you don’t get them. And quite honestly, that might just be the convoluted appeal. He’s still listening to your CD and you inwardly grin as you stretch your limbs. You were able to keep in time with the flow of the music. While you’re cracking your fingers, you don’t fail to notice his, trailing straight toward his pocket. You swear you can smell the tobacco. 

“Gonna share, right?”

“Why the motherfuck not?” he replies. The pleasantry was required, of course. But he always supplied you. He has menthols today, and you were praising whatever God Gamzee Makara believed in. For a brief moment. 

He passes you one delicately. He lights his up with a tiny commercial matchbook, and you’re pulling out your signature red lighter. You hope the fucking thing is signature by now. You click, burn. Blow. Your favorite was always menthols. Your mouth is arid and you taste cool smoke. The mint edge coincides perfectly with the dirty, fiery fume. You feel a little assuaged simply from one puff, which is disconcerting. You are probably hanging around Gamzee too much lately. 

He’s smoking in silence himself, ear buds still in place. You people-watch instead to busy yourself. They usually give you strange looks. After all, you two are a strange pair. You sigh and whole-heartedly agree with the sentiment. It’s a sweet, light day in June, and you realize that it could have been more boring than this.

All of a sudden, you start hacking. Your right hand is a fist and you’re shoving it into your mouth. Gamzee glances at you placidly. You aren’t stopping. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s not from erroneous inhalation, it’s from the air itself. Maybe you’ve caught something?

You shoot up. “I – gotta – jet. Peace.”

You leave, without looking at his slow, liquid face. You’re side-stepping people, shouldering others. You’re still coughing, though not as much. Your throat is tickling in the most unpleasant way. Fuck sickness. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. You approach your vehicle, position your right foot, and swing the left leg onto the other side. You struggle a bit, for the first time in your life, with mounting. Stupid fucking Savage. 

You’re going straight home where you will direct yourself to your refrigerator for nothing but apple juice.


	5. Karkat: Think About It

You once knew a little girl named Terezi.

Her eyes were fleshy hard boiled eggs and her teeth was sharp, biting snow. Her small face was all angles softened by youth, her cheekbones obtrusive jabs of levity and friendliness. She climbed up hills just so she could tumble down with you. She didn’t mind how the hillocks dyed her knees green. Her hands never shook with trepidation; she held yours still and laughed in your ears. The clouds were her breath. Jarred hymns were her voice. To you, she held the world in her bony, sing-song hands.

She left your life like many other things.

\--

You were nine years old. It was a Sunday and you were sitting next to your friend, faced forward, eyes wandering. You don’t remember church from your childhood all that well. Children often blur the least adventurous and most drawn out memories. Church was poking Terezi in the ribs and fingers playing on the slides that were the wooden armrests of the pews. It was staring at stained glass which related vague stories of old and of imagined. It was growing tired from standing, kneeling, and sitting. The whole lather, rinse, and repeat of praise. It was that, and only that. Nothing more. That day was in all likelihood no different from your other experiences. 

When it was time to leave, your families reunited. They were separate and silent during mass. You and Terezi always sat together, though you didn’t speak. It was for the sake of keeping each other company in the musty, holy air. Outside, her sister Vriska joined you. You didn’t like her much because she really liked spiders and digging around in the dirt. You thought that was gross. 

Her visage is quiet and sleepy and you could tell she had been thoroughly bored of God’s hospitality. She flicked Terezi’s elbow and Terezi stuck out her tongue, swatting her sister away. With a smile, Vriska skipped off and hid behind a thin tree. The tree could never have provided sufficient cover from her sister’s wrath; luckily, Terezi abstained from adding fire to the feud. 

You rolled your eyes and continued down the path towards the park. Terezi was right behind you. The two of you were ascending the street which was at an incline. You thought you could hear Vriska trotting behind, but when you glanced back, it seemed that she decided to return home with her parents. She was a lonely girl with hair even messier than Terezi’s. Your eyes locked with your mother’s, and she nodded in assent as your ways bifurcated. She took the boring route that adults and little kids take. You and Terezi had big kid business to attend to.

You reached your destination after snaking your way through the trees. You never made use of the established entrance if you could help it. This way was more secretive. Besides, it took you straight to the playground. You never appreciated this park that much, and if you could avoid any and all canines on their daily stroll that would be just fine with you.

The park was the same as it was the day before and would remain unchanged every day thereafter. Friendly plastic slides, chrome maple leaf odor, blue metal lean-tos. It was your haven. Funnily enough, without Terezi there, it was plain. The adventure was absent. It left you with an empty feeling deep in your belly. You couldn’t be left alone with your memories.

She understood that you would not go on the swings. She understood and didn’t push further –at least, not audibly. You could see the clogs and gears working in her quicksilver mind as she sifted through your breathy words to find the truth. She never needed to ask you. She stared at you with vacant eyes and she knew. 

Terezi couldn’t see. She laughed funny, she always wanted to play with you, and she got the best marks in your grade. Her hair was like charred wood and her singing reminded you of ice cream trucks. She carried herself with uncanny grace even when she was tearing apart stuffed toys. She talked to you every day, even if you were fighting. She got into arguments with others, and when that happened you were there to stifle her mercury tears. Terezi was blind, and that meant nothing. 

You were walking with her, dazed. You were wondering when would be the right moment to punch her in the arm and yell “tag” when she turned to you.

“Why don’t you ever sing in church?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You never sing along! Even when your mom wants you to, you won’t do it.” 

You shuffled and avoided her milky gaze. She can’t see you – but you can see her. “I don’t sing. Singing is for losers. What’s the point?”

“That’s stupid and you know it!”

You scowled right at her. “Why are you talking about that? What’s it to you? Mind your own beeswax, Terezi.”

She smiled her snow cone smile. 

“Sometimes I wish you’d just act like a kid. You’re not grown up, you know. You’ve gotta have fun.”

You leaned against the nearest stable object. It just so happened to be the pole of a swing set, another dear anathema of yours. You didn’t care for her diatribe and she definitely was not getting to you. Not one bit. “Why do I gotta sing just so I can be a kid? I’m never gonna sing, not for you, not for my mom, not even for Jesus. Nobody. So shut up.”

As these words slipped from your gums your insides felt like needles. Your scowl deepened and your heart hardened. You stared right into those twin moons of hers and she didn’t move a muscle. The snow frost of her lips was melting but she held still and motionless. Your ears started to burn and you were sure this was becoming a sick sort of staring contest right when her hand started to shift toward her dress pocket. Her fingers slipped in and out like tiny exacting eels. She pulled out a quarter. That stupid coin you gave her, a keepsake from the day you dressed as Batman and bequeathed the role of Two-Face upon her. Every hero needs a villain after all. 

“What are you doing?”

She turned the coin over in her hands and that’s when you realized she wasn’t even looking at you. This whole time her empty stare had no direction in particular, even if she could pinpoint your body’s location. “I’m going to flip this coin. If I get heads...you’ve got to promise me you’ll sing again one day. It’s not fair that you’re hiding your voice from the whole wide world. One day, you’re gonna sing to someone.”

Then there’s no mistake about it. Her eyes are holding you, hard and cold. 

“Deal?”

You don’t even respond and she knows that you don’t have to. She flips it almost preemptively and catches it in her palm with adroit. She turns it onto her left hand. Your heart jumped and you couldn’t help but bring yourself closer to eye the outcome.  
And...  
“Ha, it’s tails,” you point. “See?”

Her grin widens and with sharp, sharp fangs she bites, “No, I don’t see it, actually! Sorry!” 

You snorted and looked at her with mild repulsion. It was still hard to get used to her weird, dark rejoinders. “Ugh, that’s not what I meant and you know it. I win. Luck of the draw.”

She cackles, icy bright bubbles from her scratchy pale throat. “Karkles, you dummy. How come you still don’t get that luck doesn’t even matter?”

She turned her back on you and headed toward the slides. All you could do was stare at her shoulder blades and wonder what that even meant, or if that was supposed to mean anything at all. That’s when you saw her climbing the ladder and snapped back.

“Hey, wait up!”


	6. Dave: Think About It

When you arrive in front of your apartment building, you stand and do not stir from your dormant position. Your hands are in your pockets; your motorcycle stands by. Looking back on the situation, you’re burning with embarrassment and the umbrage of it all is eating you up. One tiny little coughing fit and you go shithive bananas. It figures that only you would do this. You would say you’re a healthy person overall, besides the numerous TV dinners your family’s had to consume over the years. It’s just that the idea of sickness and snot and pathogens bothers you so. 

For a long time, you’ve associated a feverish condition with losing control. You could swear that for a moment back there the voices began to stir in an unpleasant way. You don’t lose your cool in front of anybody, especially Gamzee, the amicable prick. You can’t imagine a more harrowing act.

The voices scare you. They have the power to torment you and cease your heartbeat. They’re primal, all teeth and rotting meat. They’re the monsters under your bed that swallow you whole. They’ve got dark, sharp claws that hold your hand. Sometimes their nightmare keratin thorns mar your skin, but that’s okay. We all pay a price. You hold your own tongue and they speak for you.

On those days you catch a cold, those days your throat is scratchier than usual, the voices act up. They don’t like that – not one bit – so you must suffer twofold. As they drown you in their vituperation, you realize just how parasitic they are, these mercenaries of mind and marrow. You’re thankful that the coughing fit was nothing, but now you can’t think straight and don’t even consider entering your apartment. Things shouldn’t revert to normal, as if what occurred was usual. You clench your fists.  
Your knuckles blanch – a white to match the strain that blooms behind your eyelids. You wish...that you didn’t have to obey. 

You truly are pathetic.

Your introspection is cut short by a vibration in your pocket. You glance at the screen of your phone and realize your sister is calling you. The funny thing about Rose is that she can sense your distress.

“Hey. What’s up,” you greet, glad to have a distraction. Glad she’s there.

“Nothing, really. In fact, I seem to be so unhampered as to deem necessary a call to my baby brother. How are things?”

You shrug, knowing she can’t see you. You express yourself more adequately via text; phone calls aren’t exactly your preferred means of communication. “Things are just great. Things are law-abiding grandiose behemoths who don’t take seditious shit from anyone. By the way, I’m not your baby brother. Two minutes apart is bullshit.”

She laughs her small, bittersweet laugh. “I’m aware, and I’m also aware we’ve gone through this same song and dance for the past nineteen years or so. Listen, I’m considering visiting you sometime soon. What do you think of that?”

Your hands are lax. “Yeah, whatever. Haven’t seen you in a long while, guess it’s time we got our big, mushy family reunion thing going. Don’t forget to coordinate your clothes. If we don’t synchronize our sweater vests to a T I don’t know what’s going to fucking happen.”

“Yes, that would be oh so remiss of me! I don’t know how I could possibly forgive myself, much less ask the same of you. As far as unfortunate faux-pas go, I peg that as the most deplorable. Oh, wait a moment, please.” 

You crack the most miniscule of grins as she takes her sweet time attending to whatever gave pause to your insincere back-and-forth. You think you hear voices in the static. She returns and says, “I apologize for that. Anyway, in all seriousness, I was checking in on you. I don’t really need your confirmation, I possess sister senses endowed by the hellions of filial voodoo. We can get to hash this out further in person, though, agreed?”

You sigh. “Yeah, sure, I’m just an oyster stowing away all my precious pearls of grief and dismay. I’m the most demure specimen of shellfish you’ve ever seen.”

“Indeed. By the way, how is Bro?”

“He’s fine. The same.” There is no need to say anything further on the matter. Bro is consistent, a pillar of fortitudinous stone. He won’t change and he won’t break.

“Good. Well...I’m afraid, as you might’ve gathered, that I am not able to talk much longer.”

“That’s cool. I know you’re busy.” You bite your tongue. That probably came off as bitter, didn’t it?

“Yes...well, contact me anytime, okay? Don’t have any reservations about it.”

“All phasers have been reset and are no longer on hesitancy. Listen, don’t worry about me. Go have fun picking apart brains and thinking about phallic imagery.”

“I fully intend to.” 

Your hand still lingers by your ear, but you know the line is dead. You know her black smile and you momentarily forget your despair. 

You oscillate your arms and stretch a bit. Fuck it. Time to make a decision, Dave Strider, and right now home isn’t sitting very pretty with you. You mount your bike again and quickly lean in favor of heading to the nearest Seven-Eleven. Perhaps overdosing on an acerbic stream of Monster Energy will delay re-evaluating your fruitless existence. 

The wind hits you like a steady cathartic rainfall. The ground moves beneath you and you stay still. The speed rises and you can’t help but savor the feeling of rubber under your hands, wondering why in the hell would Bro ever wear gloves while riding this thing. Your destination is clear cut, thus allowing for a deeper and familiar experience. No matter how many times you take the Savage for a spin, it’ll never lose its novelty. You slow to a stop by your favorite convenience store. You’re pretty sure she’s in there. Maybe it won’t be so bad to see an acquaintance right about now.

You stride in and avoid glancing at the counter. Instead your vision grazes the freezers because you’re most definitely scoping the most disgustingly sweet slop you’ve ever ingested, surpassing Gamzee’s Faygo even. When you make your decision, perhaps drawing out the motion longer than you intended, you swing back toward the front. Of course, Vriska’s there with a cobalt smile and her head resting on her right hand. Chipped blue nails, bitten and forlorn. Skin as white as spinneret silk. 

“Hey, there,” she drawls. “What’s new, Strider?”

You shrug in response. “Just shit out of anything to do. Which is why I’m here to offer my patronage in the innocent hopes of turning my blood into acid.”

“You’ll probably accomplish that,” she nods. “Anyway, I’ve been in the store all day. Can you believe they changed my shift out of nowhere? I would say you came here just to see my face but I know that can’t be the case.”

“Well you know the lowdown now, nothing more to add without making a repetitive shithead out of myself. But in reality I knew your schedule the whole time, this has been a huge fucking ploy that was thinly veiling my righteous rager for you.”

“Very thinly,” she says disinterestedly, flipping through some sort of memo pad. “When do your classes end?”

“Soon. Gonna do nothing but offer pure and true honesty and tell you that I’m not sure whether to be relieved or not.”

“Hahahaha, I understand, Dave! You’re bored, aren’t you?” She stretches her syllables like they’re her little dolls, her verbal marionettes. “You’ve got to find some friends! I feel sorry for you.”

“Or maybe a fucking real job. Think you could help your best palhoncho out?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Yeah I could’ve guessed as much. Just kidding, I’m not your buddy. Let that hang over you like a cloud of disappointment, let it stonk your brain to the point of no return. ‘Til you’ve got nothing but my image burned in your eyes and you’re pleading for my amiable company.”

“Right! But I feel like I do that anyways. In all seriousness," she leans forward, "did you not have anyone to hang out with today?”

Your face doesn’t betray you and your lukewarm expression does not flicker. “Yep, sure did. A prime troubadour who believes in the coming of the prodigious storm of apocalyptic devil clown dongs. My best friend and true companion.”

The word clown apparently clicks in her mind because her predator eyes narrow, periwinkle lashes framing that piercing stare. “You don’t mean Gamzee, do you?”

“Who else?”

“How’d you know I was familiar with him?”

You extricate your right hand from your pocket and rap the side of your head lightly with it. “We’ve definitely gone over this before. You’ve gotta keep up, Serket. You’re all the way behind at the starting line and you’re feasting on my dust like you’ve stumbled into a fucking oasis free-for-all.”

“Okay, sure! Whatever you just said. I’m actually tired of hearing that guy’s name. What’s so special about him anyway....” Her gaze has drifted toward her driftwood hands, fingers of flotsam and jetsam and nails of scorned wind sails.

“I...what? Why have you been hearing about him?” You pause. “No, hold up. Is there a warning stamp on this? Do I really care, or want to know?”

“Idiot. This guy that I know has been mentioning him constantly, about how they’re really close and they’re great rapping buddies or whatever. No big deal.”

“Sounds like one to me, Miss Serket.”

“I used to have a thing for him,” she shrugs. She’s still avoiding your gaze. “But now, I mean, come on, it’s so obvious that these guys have it in for each other. I can’t believe neither of them have made a move.” Her eyes lock with your invisible ones, peering over her glasses. “Has he mentioned a Tavros to you yet?”

Your eyebrow quirks. Gamzee’s romantic escapades never really come up in conversation, and you’re pretty grateful for that as it is. Actually, now that you think about it...you never think about it. Does he even do anything besides nothing? “Nope. Also I never really ask about his personal life, because if you haven’t noticed from the signals of utter disregard that emanate from my being, I don’t give a shit.”

She laughs puffs of emptiness, colored faintly friendly and ostensibly cruel. Reminds you of your menthol cigarettes. “Of course you don’t, Dave. You never do.” She turns her head toward the clock, and your line of sight can’t help but follow. “Well will you look at that. Shift’s almost over.” Her eyes fall upon your can. “And you’re still here.”

You look down at your energy drink which has lost its crisp coolness. “...Looks like I don’t got an excuse to hang around anymore.” You pick it up and nod your head briskly. “Guess I’ll keep whatever nonsense you spouted in mind. See ya. And I guess I’ll bother about Tavroast or whatever.”

She calls after you. “Stupid! It’s Tavros. And don’t bother. I don’t care anymore, because he’s finally doing something that he wants.”

You don’t take the time to analyze what she’s said because you’re already out the door and back to desolation.


	7. Karkat: Some Place New

“You always waste water, amor,” she says.

You’re standing by the bathroom door, towel wrapped about your hips. The heavy condensed air had clung to you and pressed upon your skin until you left the sanctity of the washroom. Then you were free; liberated from sweet, clean soap bubbles. Your mother understands your fixation with consistent external catharsis. It’s a ritual you’ve repeated since that day the world as you knew it was taken from you, ripped from your oak seed heart, becoming ashes in your hands. The ruts in your youthful palms were filled with dirt. You can never forget it. You struggle to remember the way your hands have been exposed to so many astringents since that day, the way your hands chafe and you’re like a desert. You breathe aridity and smell like the sun. You can’t describe to your mother the way this creates an urgency in the skeins of your nerves. But she’s used to it.

This was one of those times where she unintentionally breaks down what little is left of your self esteem. There you are, being a useless money-sucking sack of shit again. 

“Sorry,” you grumble, and flee to your room. You don’t have a future, and as much as she loves you – as much as you love her – she is a daily reminder of that. Hell, your reflection in the mirror is a memo note which reads “Just fucking give up already.”

You hiss a string of cuss words under your breath as you push your legs through a pair of freshly laundered jeans. Tonight is a Fresh Prince night. There’s something comforting about a fresh-faced Will Smith and the wacky antics which ensue with his cousins in a Californian mansion. Season four sounds about right. You’re settled in the sheets, eyes glued to your laptop screen, when your phone buzzes. You pause the episode and descry Gamzee’s name flashing on the phone. So you answer without hesitation.

“Hey, what is it now?” you immediately throw. Your heart is lifting a little.

“Nothing much,” he responds, ignoring your question. It’s expected of him by now. “I was just up and wondering about your bad little self.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fine. Hope that’s sufficient for you,” you say. “...So, what did you do today, anyway?”

“Well like I was just going on talking about earlier, I chilled with this motherfucker I know. He kind of up and left all abrupt like but that’s fine, I still had a wicked time.”

You cough a bit. “That’s fucking great, I bet you guys indulged yourselves in the most mind-numbingly senseless rapport that’s ever been initiated in the history of shit sucking rappers.”

“Pretty much, something to that motherfucking tune.”

Your baby termite coughs are becoming more sharp and relentless and so you’re getting out of bed and heading for your stash of cough drops. Nervously. Urgently.

“But in all seriousness,” Gamzee continues, in light of your pause, “tomorrow you’ve got some shit to be focusing yourself on, remember? Better get yourself all nice and sleepy, bro, I don’t want you to get your tired all on during working and shit.”

You hum in acknowledgement as you place a cherry cough drop into your mouth. It must’ve been something in the air outside; maybe you caught something while watering the flowers. You exhale heavily as your tongue rolls over the candy. Its disgusting flavor like medicinal memories filling your cheeks and seeping through your tongue.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right I guess. Come around to check on me at the store tomorrow. Who knows, maybe I’ll be neck deep in the sandman’s special fairy dust of acrid chute waste. You even get the chance to wake me up in the most boorish way you can possibly fucking conceive.”

“You can count on that, most definitely, brother.”

 

You lie back on your bed and ease into the sheets. The heat isn’t heavy enough that you’ll become sticky with sweat with just one layer covering you. You find it hard to sleep without something wrapped about your body, anyway. Your mouth is bright red with cherry sucrose and the ghost of blood droplets. You have a habit of biting your lips and the skin around your nails, resulting in unbidden red pools. Sometimes, however, your lips get so chapped they bleed all on their own.

You continue the episode half-heartedly. Will Smith’s streetwise charm doesn’t fend off the negative thoughts which gather like little black beetles in your mind. Your teeth bite down upon the remnants of the second Halls. He’s busy. He’s fine without you and so are his friends. He’s in college and you’re not. You’re not chasing your dreams or lack thereof and making mistakes and reveling in the victory after the stress. You’re the same. You’re nowhere.

Beneath the sounds of the beetle wings batting persistently against your skull you find a quiet which fills you like soft waves. They lap and lick at you, warm and consoling. You give in, close your laptop, and flick off the lights. The walls become spectators to the night air outside. The silver scale light of the moon holds your eyes, and you’re drinking in the starshine. You feel your body fill with lead. 

The night has taken over. The sun is extinguished, its fiery breath calmed to a deep yawn that disintegrates into stars. The morning would bring you to your senses, but for now you are in a lunar haze. You’re a creature of the night, a blood phantom of sleepsilk and paranoia. You’re playing the day over in your mind and failing to close your eyes. You remember your best friends: petals and Purell. You remember Gamzee and your mother. Your worries wash over you like the soft whisper of a breeze, slowly evaporating. A velleity for Gamzee’s comforting words blooms in your heart, a withering budding. It shoots up, pushing through the soil, but your blood can’t sustain it. It rots in your rib cage.

You can’t keep up with him. Gamzee...he doesn’t need you as much as you need him. He’s gamboling with his peers and living his life. He’s sunny and smiling and sleeping. He’s full of love and you’re an empty chrysalis. But when your eyelids finally meet, you imagine for a moment hope dancing on your lips; you think you can taste it. It’s a vixen of stone, an emperor of light. You fall deep into your bed and when your head numbs with sleep you can swear you still feel hope’s little kisses on your cheeks.

You hear thoughts. You don’t know if they’re your own or if they’re the unsung limericks of Luck. But you can still hear them. They buzz with a distant sense of familiarity that doesn’t belong to you. They promise you unidentifiable faces. A pair of red, hawk-like eyes pierce your vision. Blood-curdling aviary advances.

You feel the prickling of tiny needles on your sides. They’re closing in as you stare back into the predatory gaze, a glare of purpose and power. You could swear you were getting lost in a carmine abyss when the irises disperse and those tiny red particles form another image entirely. Suddenly those needles seem much more menacing than before.

You can’t hear thoughts anymore. There’s nothing to observe or listen to. Simply static machines and blurry bodies. You can’t process anything. You just know that there are maledictions in the curve of a pig’s dying whine and the decaying eyes of a cow. You know there’s that copper smell of death and you know there are maggots and bloody bones. You also know you can’t contain it all because this can’t be your head –you can’t live like this.

So you scream.

You wake yourself up. As you sit upright, you’re holding your head in your hands. A migraine is pounding harder than ever. That’s okay though, you think as your eyes sting with relief. You’re yourself again.  
But this pain will always stay. At least if your skull cracks open, you’ll know the voices of the slaughterhouse won’t seep out. Light pours in through the blinds and the motes dance for you in the gossamer filter, reminders that it’s time to be Karkat. It’s time to get up. It’s time to rise.  
You’ll be okay.


End file.
